Ken Follett - World Without End

“Profoundly.”

“So your part of the bargain…?”

“Will be kept,” said Gregory. “You shall have Claude as your bishop.”

“Thank God,” said Merthin.

Eight days later, early in the morning, Caris was at the hospital, teaching Lolla how to tie a bandage, when Merthin came in. “I want to show you something,” he said. “Come to the cathedral.”

It was a bright, cold winter’s day. Caris wrapped herself in a heavy red cloak. As they were crossing the bridge into the city, Merthin stopped and pointed. “The spire is finished,” he said.

Caris looked up. She could see its shape through the spider web of flimsy scaffolding that still surrounded it. The spire was immensely tall and graceful. As her eye followed its upward taper, Caris had the feeling that it might go on for ever.

She said: “And is it the tallest building in England?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

They walked up the main street and into the cathedral. Merthin led the way up the staircase within the walls of the central tower. He was used to the climb, but Caris was panting by the time they emerged into the open air at the summit of the tower, on the walkway that ran round the base of the spire. Up here the breeze was stiff and cold.

They looked at the view while Caris caught her breath. All Kingsbridge was laid out to the north and west: the main street, the industrial district, the river, and the island with the hospital. Smoke rose from a thousand chimneys. Miniature people hurried through the streets, walking or riding or driving carts, carrying tool bags or baskets of produce or heavy sacks; men and women and children, fat and thin, their clothing poor and worn or rich and heavy, mostly brown and green but with flashes of peacock blue and scarlet. The sight of them all made Caris marvel: each individual had a different life, every one of them rich and complex, with dramas in the past and challenges in the future, happy memories and secret sorrows, and a crowd of friends and enemies and loved ones.

“Ready?” Merthin said.

Caris nodded.

He led her up the scaffolding. It was an insubstantial affair of ropes and branches, and it always made her nervous, though she did not like to say so: if Merthin could climb it, so could she. The wind made the whole structure sway a little, and the skirts of Caris’s robe flapped around her legs like the sails of a ship. The spire was as tall again as the tower, and the climb up the rope ladders was strenuous.

They stopped half way for a rest. “The spire is very plain,” Merthin said, not needing to catch his breath. “Just a roll moulding at the angles.” Caris realized that other spires she had seen featured decorative crochets, bands of coloured stone or tile, and window-like recesses. The simplicity of Merthin’s design was what made it seem to go on for ever.

Merthin pointed down. “Hey, look what’s happening!”

“I’d rather not look down…”

“I think Philemon is leaving for Avignon.”

She had to see that. She was standing on a broad platform of planks, but all the same she had to hold on tight with both hands to the upright pole to convince herself that she was not falling. She swallowed hard and directed her gaze down the perpendicular side of the tower to the ground below.

It was worth the effort. A charette drawn by two oxen was outside the prior’s palace. An escort consisting of a monk and a man-at-arms, both on horseback, waited patiently. Philemon stood beside the charette while the monks of Kingsbridge came forward, one by one, and kissed his hand.

When they had all done, Brother Sime handed him a black-and-white cat, and Caris recognized the descendant of Godwyn’s cat Archbishop.

Philemon climbed into the carriage and the driver whipped the oxen. The vehicle lumbered slowly out of the gate and down the main street. Caris and Merthin watched it cross the double bridge and disappear into the suburbs.

“Thank God he’s gone,” said Caris.

Merthin looked up. “Not much farther to the top,” he said. “Soon you will be higher off the ground than any woman in England has ever stood.” He began to climb again.

The wind grew stronger but, despite her anxiety, Caris felt exhilarated. This was Merthin’s dream, and he had made it come true. Every day for hundreds of years people for miles around would look at this spire and think how beautiful it was.

They reached the top of the scaffolding and stood on the stage that encircled the peak of the spire. Caris tried to forget that there was no railing around the platform to stop them falling off.

At the point of the spire was a cross. It had looked small from the ground, but now Caris saw that it was taller than she.

“There’s always a cross at the top of a spire,” Merthin said. “That’s conventional. Aside from that, practice varies. At Chartres, the cross bears an image of the sun. I’ve done something different.”

Caris saw that, at the foot of the cross, Merthin had placed a life-size stone angel. The kneeling figure was not gazing up at the cross, but out to the west, over the town. Looking more closely, Caris saw that the angel’s features were not conventional. The small round face was clearly female, and looked vaguely familiar, with neat features and short hair.

Then she realized that the face was her own.

She was amazed. “Will they let you do that?” she said.

Merthin nodded. “Half the town thinks you’re an angel already.”

“I’m not, though,” she said.

“No,” he said with the familiar grin that she loved so much. “But you’re the closest they’ve seen.”

The wind blustered suddenly. Caris grabbed Merthin. He held her tightly, standing confidently on spread feet. The gust died away as quickly as it had come, but Merthin and Caris remained locked together, standing there at the top of the world, for a long time afterwards.

My principal historical consultants were Sam Cohn, Geoffrey Hindley and Marilyn Livingstone. The weakness in the foundations of Kingsbridge Cathedral is loosely based on that of the cathedral of Santa Maria in Vitoria-Gasteiz, Spain, and I’m grateful to the staff of the Fundacion Catedral Santa Maria for help and inspiration, especially Carlos Rodriguez de Diego, Gonzalo Arroita and interpreter Luis Rivero, I was also helped by the staff of York Minster, especially John David. Martin Allen of the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, England, kindly allowed me to handle coins from the reign of Edward III. At Le Mont-St-Michel in France I was helped by Soeur Judith and Frere Francois. As always, Dan Starer of Research for Writers in New York city helped with the research. My literary advisers included Amy Berkower, Leslie Gelbman, Phyllis Grann, Neil Nyren, Imogen Taylor and Al Zuckerman. I was also helped by comments and criticisms from friends and family, especially Barbara Follett, Emanuele Follett, Marie-Claire Follett, Erica Jong, Tony McWalter, Chris Manners, Jann Turner and Kim Turner.